


Ill Gotten Glances

by The_Dancing_Walrus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Mages and Templars, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dancing_Walrus/pseuds/The_Dancing_Walrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He got into this situation because he couldn’t look away. </p><p>And may be he could have found a spell to paralyse the man before he shouted for his comrades, but could he stagger out of town in time? He might have been able to push the man away, but he was too damn drunk to think of a good reason why he’d have been staring and if the Templar started to think of other reasons why he might then-</p><p>Dorian cursed every pint of ale he’d downed and kissed back.</p><p>Kink Meme fill for the following prompt: 'I want fic where Dorian is neither physically restrained nor violently forced into sex, but nevertheless finds himself having sex with someone he really doesn't want to be having sex with.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Gotten Glances

**Author's Note:**

> So uh writing the Introduction to my thesis is *really* boring.

He got into this situation because he couldn’t look away.

 

The chase had ended almost in the centre of the village so he hadn’t been the only one staring. The mage, the _apostate_ that’s what they called them here-

 

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of the look on her face, panicked and desperate as she’d fled. When he’d closed his eyes he’d seen the Templars striding sedately after her, like a pack of wolves closing around a calf they’d separated from the herd.

 

She’d turned and thrown her arms outwards as if she was wishing for a wave of ice or fire. But of course nothing happened. They’d closed and one of them had struck her, the back of the head with the pommel of his sword.

 

And they’d taken her away-

 

And Dorian…Dorian had marched straight to the village’s only Inn with a suddenly desperate urge to get completely plastered.

 

-

 

But of course the _Templars_ had showed up because in this country a man couldn’t even have a blasted drink in peace.

 

They’d been…..celebrating. And he found he kept glancing over, checking, double checking-

 

And then one of them had caught his eye, had _smiled_.

 

Dorian jerked his attention back to his drink, Fereldan ale of all things. He took a quick gulp, enough to splutter a little when he attempted to swallow the bitter swill too fast.

 

He could feel the man’s eyes on him for the rest of the evening as he got steadily drunker.

 

-

 

When Dorian had finally had enough and staggered towards the stairs the Templar had been waiting for him. Leaning against the wall in the narrow passageway, smiling-

 

“You were in the village when we caught it weren’t you?” He asked and Dorian started stuttering through some stupid drunken excuse.

 

The Templar closed the distance between them and Dorian froze-

 

“It makes me hot too.” The Templar murmured in his ear and-

 

Dorian’s drink-addled mind had a moment to process that before the Templar was kissing him, pushing him towards the wall-

 

And may be he could have found a spell to paralyse the man before he shouted for his comrades, but could he stagger out of town in time? He might have been able to push the man away, but he was too damn drunk to think of a good reason why he’d have been staring and if the Templar started to think of other reasons why he might then-

 

Dorian cursed every pint of ale he’d downed and kissed back.

 

-

 

The Templar’s room was the same, small, poorly apportioned thing Dorian’s was and Dorian had sprawled on the man’s bed staring at the ceiling listening to the sounds of armour being removed and wondering if he was really going to-

 

The trouble was he couldn’t think of any alternatives. And the room was spinning.

 

Then the Templar was on top of him, grinning and kissing his neck which wasn’t…unpleasant-

 

And he wasn’t…….terrible to look at, his smile was rather sweet, his eyes a pretty honey colour-

 

And he probably didn’t even know what….what he was doing-

 

Dorian let him take off his clothes, let him paw at his chest and thighs and felt quite thankful that the Templar hadn’t bothered to ask him if he wanted this but had merely assumed. Because if he asked Dorian was sure he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘yes’-

 

He reached between Dorian’s legs, gripping and stroking and Dorian responded despite himself.

 

He let the Templar turn him over, spread his legs when he felt it was wanted and gripped the sheets tight enough to leave creases.

 

He wanted it to be quick, to be over, but the man above him thought somehow that they were making love so it…wasn’t. Instead he was slow, insistent, _thorough_.

 

By the time he had finished plying Dorian with his fingers Dorian was gasping, shuddering sweating. Biting and clawing at the sheets. Then the Templar, _Templar,_ entered him and it-

 

He bit on cries that had no right to signify any kind of pleasure, not when he was wishing to be anywhere else, not when the man’s touch made him feel sullied. Perhaps, a treacherous voice suggested, he’d really _wanted_ this after all-

 

Dorian felt suddenly sick.

 

And then the weight left his back. It was over and he hadn’t even noticed.

 

The Templar rolled to one side, laughing and kissed his cheek, telling him how amazing it had been. There was absolutely no malice in his voice, no depravity in his expression. He truly had no idea-

 

Dorian rolled over and suddenly the man was _touching_ him again. Dorian batted his hands away.

 

“But you haven’t-” The man pointed out. “Let me-”

 

“No, no.” Dorian managed, in something passably polite for a drunken sot who’d fallen into bed with a Templar. “I’ll deal with it.”

 

He closed his eyes and closed a hand around his erection. He thought of men back home, dark skinned and smiling. Of old lovers. Of black hair and black eyes, bronzed arms, muscular and perfect. The way they had tasted, the way they had smelled-

 

Eventually it was enough.

 

He managed to smile at the man next to him when he’d finished.

 

And managed not to be sick until he’d staggered back to his own room.


End file.
